Some battles end the moment a body becomes home.

The night had been an enemy for as long as I could remember. There were years of struggles. 2am terrors and endless lists of past mistakes and faults I’d write and rewrite in my tired mind. Those were coupled with an equal measure of dark omens—of a future filled with every conceivable uncertainty, with one exception: the stark knowledge that it was shrinking. Nights were a battle of attrition, lubricated by liberal application of bourbon and whispered prayers to a god I don’t believe in.

And then there was her.

There was her, and nights became the most treasured part of my day. I loved to lay in the dark with her head on my shoulder, her arm across my chest, and her leg draped over mine. She was so warm, so soft. All the precious beauty of her heart and soul, manifest in a whole body touch. In that closeness, I could feel everything that she was—everything that she was to me—radiating through my skin. Instead of darkness, the lack of light felt like a blanket covering our entwined forms, relaxed and entirely bare to one another.

In that darkness, I would stroke her skin with the very tips of calloused fingers, paying care to use the lightest touch my clumsy hands could muster. I would feel her soft warmth, listen to her sleepy, even breaths, and ponder how love was a verb—and the irony of holding my whole world in my arms. This time was precious to me such that I would fight sleep as long as I could, but I would eventually drift into a peaceful slumber, my last thought always being that she was the first home I had ever known.